


Nacho Lucky Day

by Necronon



Category: Better Call Saul (TV), Breaking Bad, Breaking Bad & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 00:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8946337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Necronon/pseuds/Necronon
Summary: Jimmy McGill comes home to find a roughed-up Nacho Varga in his new apartment.





	

It’s one of those days Jimmy tells himself, _It can’t get any worse_ , then it does. Worse and then--no more than a week later--really, really, _God-and-Mother-Mary-help-him_ good, at least by his modest standards. But he doesn't know that, not yet, and right now it's a real shit show.

All he knows is that his lemon’s been ticketed, because he’d _borrowed_ a handicap space, and his luck is the kind that sees Officer of the Year happening by during the five minute window _(Gimmie a break, guy)_ he’s in Palace HHM. So of course there’s a little leaf of paper tucked under his wiper when he gets back. And his _better than towed_ turns into _better if it had been_ , because not even five minutes later--misfortunes occurring in nice little increments he could set a watch by--his engine dies and he’s on the side of the road in the rain. It takes five minutes to hail a cab, five more for said cab to ferry him back to his swanky apartment--his one ray of sunlight in the funk of his day--and another five piddling around his kitchen before he realizes someone’s eaten his leftover Los Pollos ( _ixnay_ on the Cholula next time) right out of his fridge. The greasy cardboard box gapes at him from his pitifully empty fridge.

He’s fixated on it, puzzled, when something shifts behind him. It's pin-drop silent, except for the soft crunch of carpet fiber beneath measured steps, and _ooooh crap,_ Tuco’s changed his mind, he’s--

“Nice place.”

Not Tuco. He knows that voice. Knows that it isn't exactly a better alternative, not by much. Jimmy looks slowly over his shoulder then cautiously pivots around to face the intruder: one Nacho Varga, Tuco's brooding henchman that could win a staring contest, hands down. Eyes open? Whatever.

“Yeeeah,” he says. “Could probably use an alarm system though, huh?”

The other man only levels him with a stare, so Jimmy reflexively does what he does best: talk. _A lot._

“So... I wasn’t expecting company." Jimmy hopes Nacho's the only surprise hiding in his apartment. "How did you find the place? Y'know, most people call first, _Hey, buddy, gonna stop by!_ or something like that. Look, what I said back at the department, it really was in your best interest, I didn’t mean...” Jimmy extends a hand and lowers his voice, like Varga's a wild animal. “If I offended you, I’m sorry. That guy who put the bug in the Kettleman’s ears--”

“I know you did it, Jimmy.”

Jimmy swallows, his mouth dry. Scratches at his throat to buy a scant few more seconds. “Nacho, I--”

“And you were right.”

“Oh,” he says. _Right._ Right? “So, you’re here to...?”

Jimmy dips his head and shifts his weight, on pins and needles. But Nacho just rolls his lips together and glares, offering Jimmy one of those sleepy blinks that reminds him of a sedate cat. Nacho's a facade of calm, like he’s got all the time in the world and didn’t just technically commit a B&E. All par for the course, except Jimmy notices that the gang-banger's rigid posture is a little stooped, and there's a dark stain on that fine silk button-up: a swath of darker red on his already red shirt. Nacho's tailored jeans and caiman boots are covered in desert. Jimmy knows him well enough to deduce that all is not well, but there's no prying information out of Nacho.

“Well,” Jimmy says with a broad sweep of his hand, “I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but I guess you already have.”

Nacho offers the room a cursory glance, then looks back to Jimmy. “I need to crash here for a few days.”

“A few days?” Jimmy’s brows draw together, and he hazards a step forward. “Look, no offense, but if you’re in trouble...”

“I’m not.”

“So, what, you fell down a flight of stairs? Car accident?”

“Something like that.”

“ _Jesus.”_ Jimmy throws up his hands, exasperated. “Okay. Fine.”

It’s not like he’s going to tell Nacho Varga to scat. Better to have the OG in his debt than vice versa, but he’s still not sure about this particular bull in his particular china shop. Jimmy scrubs his face with his hands and groans, eyelids stretched as he peeks out over them and sighs through his fingers. “Okay.” He drops his hands. “You look terrible. Bathroom’s down the hall. Hope you like Irish Spring.”

Nacho just stands there, and it’s driving Jimmy crazy. Jimmy starts to speak just as the other man says, “Thank you,” each word punctuated like he’s not accustomed to them and it’s some kind of ordeal. And to be honest, Jimmy isn’t sure how to respond either, and he’s glad when Nacho finally disappears into the hall so that Jimmy can deliberate over an Old Style.

The first ice-cold swallow is heaven, and he lets the weight of the day slough off with each consecutive sip--his hair and shoulders are still damp from the rain, but he's got his priorities. Jimmy's actually falling asleep at the bar, bottle in hand and head sliding off a propped arm, when the sound of the refrigerator door being jerked open startles him.

“You need to go grocery shopping.”

“What?” Jimmy sits up, blinking sleep from his eyes.

“Food. _Comida._ ”

"Hey, this isn't a bed and breakfast I'm running-- _wow._ "

Once his vision focuses, Jimmy sees him: Nacho’s got his last beer in hand as he toes the fridge shut. Quite literally, because the only thing he’s wearing is a skimpy towel around his waist, and while there's something weird about having the guy wandering around his house half naked, Ignacio Varga is very easy on the eyes.

Barring countless scrapes and bruises.

Nacho's covered in more than a few ugly bruises and built like a brick house; suddenly Jimmy feels both a little insecure and a little nervous--if push comes to shove, ain’t a soul placing bets in his corner of the ring.

Jimmy latently realizes Nacho is looking at him, an expectant brow arched way up there, so he averts his gaze and clears his throat.

“You, uh... I don’t think I have anything that will fit you.”

“It’s fine,” Nacho says, plucking the magnetic bottle opener off the side of the freezer and hooking it onto his beer. “I packed. And you don't seem to mind." Nacho turns the bottle up by the neck with a quick adjustment of his wrist and takes a swig. " 'Woooow.' " Then smiles. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, but does manage to set Jimmy on edge.

“I'm not gonna find a jewel-encrusted toothbrush by mine, am--hey!" Jimmy's hands fly up into the air. "Totally platonic 'wow' might I add.”

Well, not the first time he's gently modified the truth. He likes his nose _un-_ broken.

“You’re taking the sofa, right?”

“Well, I--”

“Good.”

And just like that, Jimmy let’s him. With a frown and a bitten off, _You can’t just--!_ But he lets him. What else is he suppose to do?

 

* * *

 

It’s two days later when someone knocks and Jimmy yells, “Coming, _coming!"_

Two days later when, because Jimmy’s still fighting with his tie, his house guest has just enough time to stride across the living room and answer the door for him.

Nacho doesn’t say anything, of course, and he hears Kim’s voice first: “Is... Jimmy in?”

“Getting dressed.” Nacho. Jimmy cringes.

“Okay. So, can I come in?”

There’s another few seconds of silence before he hears footsteps inside.

“I didn’t know,” he hears her say, loud enough to be sure he’s tuned in, “he was entertaining. I’m a friend of Jimmy’s, Kim.”

“Nacho.”

“Oh.”

Jimmy flounders out into the space between them before Kim can say anything else, waving his hands. He can see that she’s already put two and two together by the sidelong glance she gives him. It wasn’t that long ago that Nacho was his client and Jimmy’s livelihood had been on the table. And Kim, his confidant throughout. He remembers their conversation regarding Nacho.

_He didn’t do it, but he's a bad-bad- **bad** guy!_

_Jesus_ , she's got to be thinking he's lost his mind.

“Uh, sorry, just business,” he blurts, slipping his shoes on and ushering Kim outside.

“Jimmy, is he _sleeping_ here?” she asks as soon as Jimmy’s locked the door behind them.

“No.” Then he remembers Nacho is in what a brave soul might label PJs, and there’s nothing about the situation that supports his claim. “I mean, for a while yeah.”

“Jimmy...”

“Look, it’s--it’s weird as hell, I’ll give you that, but it’s amicable, I swear. And complicated.”

“Everything with you always is,” she says, but there’s no real heat behind the barb. She just shakes her head and crosses her arms. “Are you okay, though?”

“Yeah, hand to God.”

“Okay. We’re still on for dinner, right?”

“Absolutely. Let’s get out of here,” Jimmy says, jangling his keys and grinning.

“He’s okay to stay here alone?”

“Hasn’t chewed up the furniture yet.”

Kim rolls her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Okay, but we’re taking my car.”

“Good idea.”

And for a while, Jimmy forgets about his impromptu house guest. Until they’re finishing up, and some sappy part of Jimmy remembers his fridge is third world, and he does have a house guest. It’s not so much because he cares about Nacho that he orders an entree to go, but because he will absolutely not be accused of being a terrible host. Kim spares him a scandalized expression, like he’s doing something egregious beyond reconcile, but doesn’t say anything. And he’s grateful for that, because _a guy’s gotta eat_ is a really terrible opening argument.

It’s 10:45 pm when Kim drops him off. Nacho usually disappears for most of the day, coming back to eat, shower, and sleep in the evening, so Jimmy’s not surprised to hear the water running when he shoulders his door open, sack of take-out in one hand and a bottle of JB Liquor’s finest rotgut in the other. He takes a shot of the vodka and chases it with a sip of flat Topo Chico before shambling down the hall to the bedroom to change.

What does surprise Jimmy is that the door to the attached bathroom is wide open, and through the steam and past the poorly drawn shower curtain, he can see Nacho. And, like most folks when they decide to shower, he’s buck-naked.

Jimmy’s got a slight buzz, so he’s slow to respond. Slow to look away. He doesn’t mean to look, exactly, but he’s kind of startled. Part of the back of a closely-shorn head is visible, along with the protrusion of a broad shoulder. The waist almost disappears behind the curtain where it narrows, but doesn’t. He can see one muscular buttock and thigh, a sudsy rivulet drawing a white stripe along the contours of his bronze back. It gets derailed by a dimple just above the left juncture of his waist and hips so that it deviates between--

Nacho ducks his head under the water, rinses, then turns too quickly on his heels for Jimmy to anticipate. The result is Jimmy’s jaw on the ground as Nacho stills, hand on the curtain where he meant to push it back. Looking right at him.

Jimmy chokes out a hasty “Sorry!” as he averts his gaze, one hand up like he’s a kid that’s crept into a horror movie and gotten more than he’s bargained for. He stumbles back out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, Nacho’s piercing gaze-- _and everything_ _els_ _e--_ painted plainly in his mind like some kind of lewd afterimage.

He’s going to need another drink. Maybe a long walk.

A few minutes later, he hears footsteps, and he doesn’t want to just leave the circumstance of his peepshow hanging in the air, so he breaks the ice by saying, “I brought back some grub, so you can stop complai--”

Jimmy almost drops his drink as Nacho rounds the corner into the kitchen and crowds him up against the island where he’s placed the food and vodka. He thinks he’s going to get a shiner of his own, squeezes his eyes shut in anticipation, but he doesn’t.

“Hey.”

Jimmy cracks an eye open and smiles weakly, a look that says, _So what’s the verdict?_

Nacho’s wearing the damn towel again. _More than he_ _ **was**_ _wearing_ , his brain helpfully supplies, and Jimmy swallows thickly. The guy’s got his poker face on--big, dark eyes wide and intense. Face to face, Jimmy can see some of his long eyelashes adhered by moisture. Can make out the faintest ring of amber in his gaze as Nacho inclines his head and, ever so slowly, raises that token eyebrow of his.

“You like what you saw?”

Jimmy’s own brows furrow, drawing deep lines across his forehead. “Uh, I didn’t mean--”

“Answer the question.”

Jimmy looks frantically from side to side and shakes his head. “Can I buy a vowel here?” His voice is pinched, and when Nacho’s jaw flexes, Jimmy knows he’s losing his patience. “I mean, you’re a good lookin’ guy, but, hand to God, I wasn’t--” Jimmy sighs, exasperated. _“Y_ _ou left the door wide open!”_

Jimmy’s holding his hands up on either side of his head, cup still in his left, and completely red. Nacho, on the other hand, is one cool cucumber. Jimmy’s not sure what to expect when he softens, eyes hooded, and smiles. Because the smile _does_ reach his eyes this time, and it kind of... looks really good on him.

“That woman, Kim. She your girlfriend?”

“Not...exactly.”

“’Not exactly?’”

“No.”

Nacho chuckles softly and crowds him a little more. Jimmy can feel the knot of the towel digging into his hip, and _Jesus_ , did things just get really weird?

“So, uh...”

“You been straight with me. I like that. I like _you,_ Jimmy.” Nacho tilts his head, eyes jumping as he gives Jimmy a once-over. “You look so nervous. That's cute.”

Oh. Okay. Nacho’s passing him the proverbial note, circle _yes_ or _no_ , and now Jimmy’s got this monumentally awkward decision thrust into his lap. He’s deliberating on whether his choice of words is a poor or perfect one when Nacho seals the gap between them and Jimmy’s nervous energy erupts. His fingers tighten around the cheap cup in his hand as he chews his lip, opening and closing his mouth. It’s Nacho that has to reach up, pluck the cup out of his clutching grasp, and grab him deliberately by the wrists to guide his hands down. Jimmy watches as his hands are pressed firmly against the warm expanse of Nacho's chest and shoulder, telling him everything he needs to know.

He’s been with guys before. Not for a while, but the issue isn’t that Nacho’s a dude--it’s that, in the interest of his well being, Jimmy’s by principle on retainer. And that Nacho’s a dealer, and that’s only what Jimmy knows insofar. His buddy had threatened him with wire cutters, for Chrissake! But even though Jimmy knows all this, he doesn’t stop Nacho from guiding him down his sculpted abdomen, the hands over his retreating only when Jimmy’s fingers splay and he squeezes Nacho’s trim waist, digging a thumb into his hip. Yeah, that one was all Jimmy. Now he’s a co-conspirator. Now he’s... _feeling Nacho up_. There's a hand at the back of his neck too, squeezing.

Jimmy is stock still as Nacho ups the ante and cranes his head, bringing their mouths together--a closed and tentative kiss, lips sticking as Nacho retreats to look at him, speculative, as if to make sure Jimmy isn't about to jump ship. When Nacho wets his lips and presses in again, open-mouthed, Jimmy's ready and meets him head on. Teeth click, and Jimmy swallows the softest rumble from Nacho that immediately lights a hot fire in his gut, and he says goodbye to his lingering uncertainty and tension, because this is good. _Nacho_ is good. They're at just the right angle that their tongues can pass easily into the other's mouth, and Jimmy can't remember the last time he's shared a kiss with someone that was quite so... _filthy._

Jimmy jumps when Nacho breaks their kiss to lick a vulgar stripe up the column of his neck. He feels more than he hears Nacho huffing a laugh against his shoulder.

"That was fast..."

At some point, Nacho had gotten a thigh between his legs, and Jimmy doesn't have to ask. _Yeah, yeah._ He doesn't answer either, preoccupied by the way Nacho's taut body is winding beneath his roaming fingers, a far cry from the straight-backed parade rest he usually adopts. And there's the towel that's hanging dangerously low on his hips...

Nacho steps back.

“W-What is it?”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So,” Nacho says, and Jimmy can’t help but look immediately down. Yeah, he’s not the only one invested in the proceedings. “I’m not going to fuck you drunk.”

“I’m not--we don’t--” Jimmy gestures and props himself up off the island. “You actually want to...?”

Nacho laughs, an almost inaudible sound, and says, “You’re funny, Jimmy,” then starts for the bedroom.

“Well, in light of this new development,” Jimmy calls after him, “do I get _my_ bed back?”

His answer is the sound of the bedroom door clicking softly closed behind Nacho’s retreating figure. Now he’s got two options: sulk in the kitchen and continue to drink--or find a way to convince Nacho that he’s plenty sober, and yes, he’d really, really like to pick up where they left off.


End file.
